


Insomnia

by witchsoup



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Auror Partners, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fluff, Ministry of Magic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-13
Updated: 2017-07-24
Packaged: 2018-09-17 07:17:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9311222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/witchsoup/pseuds/witchsoup
Summary: Clueless about the dynamics of his department, Dawlish was the first to partner her with Malfoy. The frequency with which Hermione's name appears in the Prophet - usually as a headline featuring the wordslove triangleand a question mark - dictates her workload.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Self indulgent trash. The entire plot is planned out, but I'm not sure how many chapters I'm looking at, probably less than 5. Who doesn't love a classic fake relationship?

She's not an Auror, not really. The basic tenet of the Auror division is Dark wizard hunting: six years post-Voldemort there's not much to be said for Death Eater activity. Wizarding Britain has a short memory. There’s a nationwide aptitude for wilful ignorance and an inability to differentiate between Gospel truth and gossip. 

Dawlish likes to hold briefings after lunch, claims there's no need for him to babysit the office, except for when Harry is on duty. He'll make an appearance around half past eleven, chatting conspiratorially with Harry as if he had never been under Fudge's fat thumb. Strolling aimlessly, he'll stop, pick up a case file, set it back down unopened and has been known to congratulate an empty chair on its good work. 

Clueless about the dynamics of his department, Dawlish was the first to partner her with Malfoy. The frequency with which Hermione's name appears in the Prophet - usually as a headline featuring the words _love triangle_ and a question mark - dictates her workload.

Her maiden voyage into the world of stake-outs was an unmitigated disaster: a Prophet photographer felled by a portion of breezeblock; a hole blasted through the wall of a flat ten storeys up; half the members of a house elf trafficking ring failing to Apparate before hitting the ground. The ringleader was found Splinched in Manchester town centre, arrested less than an hour later.

Overnight rumours flew: she and Malfoy had conceived a child during their latest mission. Hermione was considering a Muggle abortion. Malfoy had already been disowned and was preparing to abscond to the Highlands with his new family.

Invariably she burns through her workload. Though she had contacted Human Resources about her summer holiday - _sir, with all due respect you don't get to approve my holiday time, they're supposed to be independent of department hierarchy_ \- she's trapped in the office in the middle of a heat wave. The sea bass she’s been saving for tonight will spoil: she's reduced to egg and chips for dinner, with company if Draco's feeling particularly charitable.

It's two o'clock and she's sticking to her chair, on strike from paperwork until Dawlish gets off his _fat arse_ and calls a briefing. If Harry was here he'd be heading it himself. Crime waits for no man is his newest catchphrase - on the Chosen One, paired with an enthusiastic grin, it doesn’t grate so much. Though it's clear Kingsley is grooming Harry to replace Dawlish, their boss won’t dare interfere with the summer holiday of the Boy Who Lived. 

"Granger." Hermione lifts her head from the back of her hand with a small damp sound and looks up towards the voice. "Granger. For the love of Merlin, get him out here. There's only four of us in, today's been as slow as a week in Hell."

Whom Malfoy had to fuck to get a desk fan she does not know. 

"Last week I walked in on him half naked, drying his trousers on the fire," she sighs in reply. "Dawlish jumped out of his skin, and they fell through the Floo. Guess who had to retrieve them from the Minister's office? Kingsley had no idea the head of the DMLE was chatting to him in his pants."

"He fucking _hates_ me, Granger. Do it for, you know, the good of the department." With a vague gesture toward the door, Malfoy comes to perch on the end of her desk. 

“Take pity on Dennis.”

Dennis Creevey, who has spent the last hour constructing a flock of paper cranes from old expense receipts, shoots her a thumbs up from his position by the water cooler.

Hermione huffs and fights the urge to unbutton her blouse. Malfoy is the pastiest person she's ever seen, yet she's the one with flushed cheeks while he remains unflappable. Possibly, it's something to do with her proximity to the enchanted glass. Cooling charms don't stick with waves of heat rolling in from the artificially cracked window. Magical Maintenance are incompetent arseholes who do not understand that her failure to remain calm and collected in the face of adversity - anything above 25 degrees - results in a _loss._ Something tells her Malfoy knows about this unspoken game, keeps score as fervently as she does.

With as much dignity as possible Hermione unsticks her thighs from her chair. A random file in one hand (for fanning purposes) she raps on the door with the other, waits a good fifteen seconds after she hears 'Come in, Granger,' and remains propped in the doorway despite her boss’ invitation to sit. 

Her hair is immediately recognisable through the frosted glass.

As is her _prissy little knock, look, Granger, it's embarrassing, imagine Weasley shagging Brown against the other side of the door - you know, freckled balls bouncing, really picture it - what is it she calls him? Won-Won, make love to me - really bang on it, get their attention-_

"Sir, we're due a briefing. As far as I know, there aren't many cases to go around, but we're sitting twiddling our thumbs out here."

One must not allow oneself to be sucked inside the office under pain of a forty minute discussion on office stationery.

"That's the crux of it, sweetheart."

One must not complain about misogynistic use of a pet name under pain of a repetition of the classic _I love women, doll, and women love me, you know?_

"There's one major case available - look, just get Malfoy in here, will you?"

Between Malfoy and Dawlish passes a look of professionally curbed loathing. Malfoy has a habit of sitting without being asked. She's never seen him do it with any other department head, knows that his manners are generally above reproach. Impeccable breeding is an unstoppable force no longer warring against the immovable object that was his childhood devotion to being a prat.

"You two work well together, when you keep the shouting matches in check. God knows I'd rather have Potter on this but he's off in the Med with his little wife, so it falls to you." Dawlish gestures to a twin pair of files atop a precarious pile to his left.

"Voldemort was a right bastard-" 

Malfoy scoffs, loudly, and in the ensuing silence simply gestures for the older Auror, eyes still skimming over the file in his hand, to continue. 

"- but the Anti-Muggle stuff he spouted kept a tight lid on the Statute of Secrecy. Now your average criminal doesn't bother about being burned at the stake, they're venturing into untapped markets. Dreamless Sleep, Elixir to Induce Euphoria, anything even vaguely addictive and easy to transport, they're marketing it to Muggles."

"So what's the plan? Pose as Muggle buyers and catch out the supplier? Neither of us are unknown to the public-"

Dawlish silences her with a raised hand. Though he still views Draco with all the contempt he would for Lucius, he's never dared cut Malfoy off in the same way.

"Polyjuice is a touchy subject with the Wizengamot right now, too many instances of Auror brutality. I mean, when you're facing off against a Death Eater who'd sooner kill you than look at you apparently keeping them down is _Auror brutality-_ "

He catches Malfoy's eye: cold and set in a stony face.

"Anyway. You'll be plain clothes, just a pair of partners off duty - we don't need you to actually try to buy the stuff, should be enough to observe for now.”

“The two of us together in Muggle London? Granger can’t step out of her front door without being photographed, what makes you think we’d be able to avoid the cameras?”

“I don't particularly care whether your faces are plastered all over the Prophet, as long as you keep one eye out for our dealer. From another source we know it's always one person working alone, meeting repeat customers- sometimes it's a man, sometimes not, but from the way they walk it’s safe to say we’re looking for one person using Polyjuice-”

“Or a Metamorphmagus,” offers Hermione.

Dawlish looks up at her over a pair of cheap reading glasses she’s fairly sure he doesn't actually need, faintly surprised that she's capable of interrupting a superior. 

“Come off it, Granger. They're one in five thousand, and registered with the Ministry at birth.”

Once more Malfoy doesn't even bother to look up from his file as he dismisses her.

“Tonks gave birth at home, when St Mungo’s wasn't safe. If she'd stayed on the run how easy do you think it would have been for her to conceal the fact Teddy even existed?”

“Your average housewife isn’t part of an underground resistance group-”

“One in five thousand is nothing when you look at the kind of numbers Muggles are faced with - one birth in a million, in several million. Bigger gene pool, but we don't even know if the dealer is British.”

“Either way, the brief is observation only, at least for you. If you see anything incriminating I can arrange for backup to make an arrest, but it's unlikely. My source has been watching for weeks and is yet to come up with anything concrete.”

“When are we-”

“You have two days until they’re supposed to be making a drop,” interrupts Dawlish. Petty revenge, she thinks.

“They’re fairly predictable, but that doesn’t mean you should be wasting precious time with squabbling. Make it believable.”

* * *

No matter what Ginny says she’s perfectly capable of dressing herself, especially for a role as clear cut as this. Hermione knows trends - she’s always been good at patterns, intuitive leaps, predicting sequences. The number of magazines littered around the sitting room at Grimmauld Place and Harry’s tendency to run late means that just because she _doesn’t_ put together outfits like this, doesn’t mean she _can’t._

Malfoy, however, does not believe her.

Bundling her into a Ministry fireplace at the end of the day, fingers firmly wrapped around her upper arm, he calls out ‘Malfoy Manor,’ and her stomach drops through her shoes.

Graceful as always, Malfoy simply brushes off his suit and drops her arm, but not before steadying her as she tumbles from the Floo. A trip to Wiltshire isn’t exactly as comfortable as her usual commute across London. She opens her mouth to object to his chosen location, but catching her eye Malfoy shakes his head. He knows she’s perfectly aware he hasn’t lived here since the day of his trial, because Harry is a famously talkative drunk.

Neither of them are particularly fond of this house.

“I usually Apparate, but I had the feeling you’d be adverse to Side-Along,” he says, rifling through an ancient looking bureau. Suddenly he surfaces with a scrap of parchment, pressing it into her hand. 

“Can’t access my flat direct from the Ministry - one too many death threats from surprisingly inept Ministry workers. You’d think an employee of the Improper Use of Magic office would know how to send a cursed letter without being traced, but then again… we all know the Ministry’s going to the dogs.”

“I never cared much for it under previous leadership either, but you didn't see me sending out Howlers left right and centre,” mumbles Hermione.

“No, you were too busy trying to _overthrow_ the government to make any constructive criticisms.”

He nods at the parchment in her hand with a meaningful look.

In an elegant hand reads an address she recognises as being on the Chelsea Waterfront. The Malfoys have never been shy about flaunting their wealth, but she knows Malfoy supposedly pays for his little hiding hole in Muggle London with his own private vault. A single mortgage payment for a place with this address would make her monthly salary - _their_ monthly salary, they’re of the same rank now - look like pocket change.

“Your mother is your secret keeper? Why not do it yourself?”

“My father actually, although he does have rather feminine handwriting, you’re right.”

At Hermione’s impatient look, he sighs.

“Your beloved Potter has a tendency to get me royally pissed whenever we come within half a mile of a pub. I have been known, at his insistence, to take home a member of the fanclub he attracts whenever he sticks his fat head out of his front door. My father has a very strict no-bastard policy.”

She covers her mouth, though a smile threatens to escape the confines of her fingers.

“You may laugh, but Lucius Malfoy wielding words like _vulva_ is not to be disagreed with.”

“Malfoy, you’re twenty-four years old. Surely he doesn’t doubt you know what goes where.”

“Oh no, dear Granger. This wasn’t that _particular_ chat, this was an in depth description of every sexually transmitted disease in the book. He had anecdotes. It was horrifying.”

At that, she lets out a full blown laugh, and although Malfoy does his best to look appropriately scarred, a smile spreads across his face before he offers his arm to guide her once more through the Floo.

“Why not keep a copy at the office? Then we wouldn’t have had to come traipsing all the way over here. I don’t understand why we have to visit your flat _anyway,_ the pub down the road from the Ministry lets you eat your chippy in there if you buy a drink-”

“I never said _chippy,_ Granger,” he drawls, his mouth contorting at the thought. “I said fish and chips, which we will be procuring from a reputable restaurant - as soon as Pansy’s done with you.”

“Wha-”

_“Lots Road!”_

* * *

“Let’s make this as fast as possible, Draco, I have a drinks meeting at nine,” snaps Parkinson the second she swans through the Floo, bypassing Hermione completely to kiss him on the cheek and accept a carefully crafted gin and tonic.

Alcohol in hand, she drops her tiny handbag onto the breakfast bar. Without sparing Hermione a glance, Pansy draws her wand and pulls shrunken garment bags from its depths. 

“Drink, Granger?”

Malfoy gestures to his considerable drinks shelf with a half chopped cucumber. Prior to the other witch’s arrival he had informed Hermione that Pansy’s entire life has been mere precursor, to the day she retires to bed with a headache and a gin and tonic.

Hermione shakes her head, though her mouth is dry and her throat sticks with every failed swallow. The garment bags, levitated and looming over Hermione’s small stature, are nowhere near as menacing as the model-like woman propped against Malfoy’s counter.

“Draco has informed me the two of you will be photographed together on your next assignment. For someone in the public eye you have a woeful sense of what actually suits you, although I’m sure shoulder pads do wonders for your confidence when you’re raiding country homes.”

“There hasn’t been a raid carried out by the Auror department in over four years. We do, however, perform _parole checks._ How is your father doing with his community outreach work?” asks Hermione loftily, before turning to Malfoy.

“When did you owl her? I was with you the entire time,” she hisses.

“I made use of a wonderful Muggle invention, I believe it’s called texting,” smirks Malfoy. He pulls a slick looking smartphone from his pocket, waggling it in her face as he makes his way around to the sofa. His flat is filled with minimalist furniture, chrome features glinting in the evening light.

“Pansy is incredibly talented, I promise you. We’ll need her if anyone’s going to believe, you know.” He gestures between himself and Hermione.

“What he’s saying is, Malfoys have taste. The entire country knows you work together, and that he’d never willingly spend time with you outside of cases. I’m tasked with dressing you such that your average journalist believes he’d date you.”

“Dawlish said make it believable, not make it tawdry - we’re together all the time! Half the country is convinced we’re hiding a secret love child! All we have to do is not jump down each other’s throats-”

“Not without at least Potter and Ginny. We’re never alone, but it’s not a huge leap for them to assume our mutual friends have set us up. It’s well within the bounds of Ginny’s customary meddling-”

“Ginny only has the best of intentions for you, that Danish woman was lovely-

“She was bloody ugly, Granger, and insufferable, she sounded like a dying donkey when she laughed. Potter’s Mandrake joke isn’t even funny, and he trots it out like-”

“At least Harry has a sense of humour! You sit in the corner brooding and complaining about the quality of the beer and then ask Harry why Ron hates you so much, as if you don’t know-”

“Shut the fuck up, Granger, you don’t have a clue what you’re talking about.”

“I know that you’ve never apologised to any of us-”

“What, Granger, for lying to my mad aunt and saving your lives?”

“For being a racist, ignorant, bully!” Her shriek causes Malfoy to flinch, actually flinch, pushing up from the sofa, ostensibly to refill his glass.

“So,” says Pansy, brightly. “I brought a few cast-offs from Autumn/Winter, we usually let the models keep whatever they wear but I had some of the _larger sizes_ left over.”

Her smile is snake-like.

“Come along, Granger.”

Stalking towards the door, Pansy throws Malfoy a glance over her shoulder, and her face falters before she continues down the vast hallway, flanked by her garment bags.

Flushing, Hermione scrambles up from the sofa, abandoning her coat and fleeing from the harsh set of Malfoy’s jaw.

Every door bar one - she counts six before reaching the end of the hallway - is closed, and she peeks into the final room before Pansy snaps her fingers, much in the same way she’s seen Malfoy do in restaurants.

Pureblood manners do not extend to the staff.

“Four outfits, shoes are in the bathroom. I don’t particularly care which ones you prefer, you’re not trusted to choose for yourself. I want to see all of them, and I’m rather pressed for time.”

Pansy’s voice is cold, even more so than when Malfoy was within earshot, and she crosses the enormous room, throwing open the wardrobe without a second glance at Hermione.

“I don’t think Malfoy would appreciate you poking around his guestroom.”

Parkinson scoffs.

“I’ve known him since he was born, Granger. Anyway, this isn’t the guest room, it’s his bedroom. He turned the guest room into a library, totally ignoring Blaise’s plea to let him move in. I bought most of the clothes he owns, and he needs dressing for this as much as you do.”

She’s never seen him looking anything other than perfectly put together, generally in bespoke suits and ostentatiously shined shoes.

At her look of confusion, the other witch lets out a cold, sparkling laugh.

“Do you really think he’ll _blend_ dressed in something straight off Savile Row? There’s a reason Draco owns so many suits, he can’t match an outfit to save his life.”

Hermione smiles weakly, and once more Parkinson snaps at her to get moving.

The bathroom is brightly illuminated the moment Hermione steps through the door, though there’s not a single lightbulb that she can see. Malfoy’s shower is gargantuan, practically the size of her kitchen, with any number of taps and nozzles.

Shrugging out of her cardigan, Hermione catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror, tired and out of place in this room filled with gleaming marble. Her hair is the only thing about her that shows any sign of life. Immediately she dismisses the first two bags - anything which dips that low is sure to invite photos of her from unflattering angles, unused as she is to avoiding wardrobe mishaps. Besides, she could only dream of filling out the top of dresses like that.

Between a complicated leotard and jeans combination and a much simpler black dress, she slips into the latter, pleased to see this, at least, fits her properly.

With a wave of her hand the lower half of the dress transforms into marginally more modest shorts, silk flowing nicely around her unfortunately ample curves and ending in black lace, in the same style as the daring neckline.

She sits on the toilet to strap herself into the ludicrous shoes Pansy has provided, and at that moment the other witch throws open the door, tutting, presumably, at how slow she’d been to remove her clothes in Draco Malfoy’s bathroom.

“I distinctly remember designing a very similar black _dress,”_ she admonishes.

“You designed this? I thought you were just some sort of-”

“Considering that I’m doing you a favour, I’d choose your words carefully. We all have to start somewhere, even if it is Madame Malkin’s back room. Although I suppose that doesn’t apply to war heroes.”

As Hermione levers herself off the toilet lid, Parkinson stands back to appraise her.

“Not bad, Granger. Shame about the tits, but your arse makes up for it. Merlin, the number of squats I’d have to do...”

Pansy turns, fluffing her short hair before assessing herself in the mirror. She frowns, smoothing a hand over her backside before shrugging.

“I assume you’re competent enough at wielding a makeup brush, or at least someone you _know_ is. At the last memorial ball you looked… marginally less disastrous than usual.”

Hermione nods, reluctantly. She can certainly mimic what she’s seen Ginny do in the mirror tens of times, while her friend enjoys the last of her holiday.

“Personally, I think you’re a bit of a bitch, but no-one will admit to it because of what you did. Don’t get me wrong, the position I’m in now is vastly favourable to life in the Death Eater Women’s Institute, but the three of you are rather insufferable,” she sniffs. “I don’t know why Draco bothers with you at all, but he’s never been one to just accept punishment and move on.”

She hops up onto the marble counter - Malfoy really has a thing for marble, she now realises - dislodging two bottles, one containing what looks like hair potion, and the other shaving soap that smells very strongly of Draco in the mornings. She’s reduced them to a slick puddle, interspersed with fragments of glass.

Hermione, wand forgotten in the next room, vanishes the mess with a wave of her hand.

Seemingly unimpressed, Parkinson presses on.

“Whenever he was sent to his room as a child he would literally _sit and think_ about what he’d done, just like his parents told him to. I, for one, would summon a house elf to play with.” Her voice drops. “It eats away at him, how he behaved as a child. How he was taught to behave. He can barely sit through dinner with his father now. I’m warning you, before you go off on another little rant, think carefully."

Brandishing her wand, Parkinson returns the crumpled clothes on the floor to their proper place, and turns to fix her lipstick. When her eyes meet Hermione’s in the mirror, she smirks.

“He’s a rather sensitive soul.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has become temporarily less fluffy since Hermione is more concerned with her perceived version of justice rather than morality and/or being a nice person. She is Not Here for fluff, but she's going to get it anyway. Eventually. She has to work up to seeing Malfoy as a human being, rather than a foul loathsome evil little cockroach. He has to suffer for it, is what I'm saying. Also Hermione to like, pass the tests of three Slytherins before she wins the heart of princess Draco. Fairytale style.

In front of the floor-to-ceiling windows squats a dining table laden with service for eight: all sharp angles and white perspex. From the disastrous homemade dessert he supplied for Ginny's last dinner party, she assumes Malfoy doesn't entertain much.

Abandoned the moment Parkinson had snapped her clutch closed, Hermione is left to scuff her feet while Draco sips slowly at his beer, appraising her with a cool expression. Untouched on the breakfast bar wait two carefully wrapped tinfoil parcels, with a white paper bag discarded by Malfoy's feet.

"Where did those come from?"

"The concierge dropped them off while you two were off doing... whatever," he mutters. 

"Pansy Apparated-"

"I know." She looks up at him, startled by the impatience in his tone. He adds, more softly, "The wards. I felt it."

Hermione gapes, eyes searching the doorway for any physical sign of the magic suffused throughout the luxurious, but distinctly Muggle, flat. The elevator opens straight into his living room, for Merlin’s sake. He must drive the maintenance crew up the wall.

"That's _blood magic!_ You're an Auror for Merlin's sake! You could lose your job!"

The look he gives her is long suffering, bottle paused halfway to his mouth.

"It's not technically breaking the law, not for me. The Malfoy properties passed into my name when my father went into Azkaban. I didn't want my flat entailed, but the solicitor told me if my permanent residence wasn't blood warded none of the others would hold. The entire estate would have to be dissolved."

"Oh, so what you mean is you’d lose your inheritance.” Her tone is scathing. “Blood wards are still illegal, Ministry procedure is to seize the property, bring in Curse Breakers-"

"Destroying hundreds of years of magical history. The Manor would seal itself off before it allowed the wards removed. Any unwanted visitors would be trapped inside with my family's entire Dark Arts collection, plus hundreds of irate ancestral portraits-"

"Kingsley was on the team that searched the Manor before your mother's house arrest. You're not seriously telling me he just overlooked rooms full of Dark objects," she scoffs.

"It’s not _my_ collection, don’t be dim, it’s my grandfather's. He had academic dispensation, it’s all been catalogued. Wrote an enormous number of papers on the Dark Arts before he died, all of which are banned now, of course," he says bitterly.

"Do you... have copies?" Hermione asks, eyes shining.

"I'd appreciate it if you didn't drool all over the food."

Hermione slides her wand up her sleeve, pulling out a stool and tearing a thin strip of tinfoil off the parcel to reveal what she could only describe as gourmet dining, even if it is fish and chips.

"You Confunded your concierge, didn't you."

"Of course I did. He thinks I'm the grandson of the woman in the floor above, and I tipped him handsomely."

Reaching across to take a plate, he flushes.

"I'm sorry, Granger."

Her brow furrows. 

"You shouldn't apologise just because I asked you to. It doesn't count," she insists.

Silently, he stabs a chip and throws it into his mouth, chewing mechanically.

"I apologise for being a prat,” he rushes out. “For every time I told you your birth made you inferior, every time I turned my nose up at you in disgust.” He pauses, taking a breath to steel himself. “I would say, though, that your behaviour wasn't exactly... above reproach."

Hermione scowls, twines her hair around her wrist as if to hold it with a sticking charm but lets it fall, shifting in her seat.

"Luna- Luna Lovegood-"

Malfoy rolls his eyes.

"I know who Luna Lovegood is. She was imprisoned in my cellar. Not to mention the fact she invited me to her bloody nudist wedding in the Shetland Isles-"

"Anyway, Luna once suggested to me that the reason I have certain... violent tendencies, is because I'm used to people point blank refusing to listen to me. I grew up insisting to my parents that I could make my books read themselves aloud. Half my teachers, even at Hogwarts, used to sigh every time I raised my hand.” Hermione pauses, and her eyes crinkle under the weight of her smile. “My best friend is Harry Potter." 

She stands, Summoning a glass and filling it from the tap.

"It kept me alive in the war,” she almost whispers. “I could rationalise it - the fact that even if I sat down and tried to convince these people I was just as worthy of my magic as they were, they'd still try to hurt me. If they would sooner kill than listen to reason, I could kill too."

"But you never did."

"That's what Harry believes. I told Ron the truth, though, and Neville, strange as that sounds. That was our job: to shoulder the burdens we knew could break him. He could keep his hands clean."

Retaking her seat she practically inhales her food, which burns her mouth at first. In an effort to appear considerate Malfoy's overdone it with the warming charm. When she looks up from her empty plate, she finds Malfoy looking at her with a peculiar expression on his face.

“Does it make you trust me less,” she asks. “Knowing I’m a murderer?”

“You’re not- it was war, Granger. There’s a difference. It doesn’t make you a bad person, not when you don’t have any other choice.” He scrapes a hand through his hair. “Who knows, maybe if you hadn’t killed whomever it was, your side would have lost the war. As for trusting you, I don’t expect you’re going to turn around and Avada me in the middle of an assignment.”

He rubs his jaw, voice turning frosty.

“Punch me in the face... maybe.”

“It was more than one person.”

“You’re a Gryffindor,” he sneers, and a laugh almost escapes her. His voice turns low. “What you did, I don’t think it gets more noble than that. Potter’s not a child, and he’s not an idiot. We were at war, and people die. Generally, at the end of someone else’s wand.”

* * *

In a change to age-old proceedings her Order of Merlin came with a four figure lump sum, a ‘sign of gratitude from the wizarding community,’ the Wizengamot called it. Rita Skeeter called it a waste of people’s taxes. Every Phoenix who kept their reward was slated in the Prophet for weeks afterwards.

Hermione announced in the hastily penned acceptance speech stuffed into her morning water break that she’d be donating to the rebuilding of Hogwarts, while Harry had funded an initiative to improve the Auror training scheme. By the time Hermione entered the department after completing her final year at Hogwarts, she’d taken a course on recognising and destroying Horcruxes, something Seamus had likened to bomb disposal.

Dean likes police procedurals.

There had been an optional lesson to round it off: studies show the sort of enchantments laced around old Pureblood homes have aftereffects which can permanently shape a person's magic. She’d received the highest grade in the class, with a case study on the cave which had housed Slytherin’s locket. The instructor requested permission to use her submission as course literature.

As the department is now, it’s unlikely she’ll be staying much longer. For the past two years Kingsley has been dropping hints over Weasley dinners that there’s a position in the Beings Division waiting for her - his heavy handed suggestions began even before Robards’ unfortunate incident with a unicorn. Dawlish was vastly, obviously, startlingly incompetent even when his only job was to head up the Aurors, and now he stumbles through weekly meetings with Kingsley, trying desperately not to let on how much he’s floundering.

It’s been eighteen months and Kingsley’s no closer to finding a real department head, or finding sufficient evidence to have Dawlish sacked.

When she finally enters the office bang on the hour, Malfoy is already at his desk, feet propped up on an open drawer and a file marked ‘Confidential’ held close to his face.

Calling hello, she’s taken aback by his bloodshot eyes and the light grazing of stubble on his face.

“Close your mouth. I haven’t been to bed yet, and you’re going to make me yawn.”

“What _happened_ after I left?”

Hermione had slipped into her pyjamas and caught up on Masterchef with some of Molly’s homemade toffee.

“Pansy’s drinks meeting went well, so of course the four of us ended up in Muggle London, _again._ I had to confiscate Pansy’s wand before she got into an altercation in the loo, _again.”_

“The four of you?”

“Pansy, Daphne, Theo. Blaise doesn’t do Muggle London, doesn’t do London at all really. We only get to see him when he deigns to invite us to the palazzo.”

A bemused smile crosses her face. The social circle in which Malfoy perambulates is frequently featured in the Prophet’s society pages, while their parents are vilified in the headlines. 

For the younger generation, public enmity comes in the form of sneering reminders that their wealth is not their own. It’s easier to believe the lives captured by reporters is all the young Purebloods have ever known, and people are happy to ignore what Malfoy endured in the war until it comes time to crucify him for it. 

They’re happy to call it blood money, until it buys them a scandal, a reason to turn the pages of the morning news, though they’ll never let him forget where it came from. Ill gotten gains, though he had no hand in the getting.

Hermione pauses by Dawlish’s office door, where a crumpled Post-It note levitates in front of the glass. Her attempts to modernise the department are never more than half absorbed.

_‘09:30 - Granger, Malfoy and Thomas - Wizengamot chamber - press duty’_

“When is he going to give up and set up his real office instead of sprinting back and forth all day? Hovering about here while he has actual work to be getting on with. It just gives Gavin from Misinformation a reason to _pop in_ -” Malfoy frowns at her poor imitation of a Welsh accent. “-and stare at my cleavage-”

“What cleavage?”

She shoots him a glare, slapping the note down on his desk and grabbing his cup of coffee, taking a tentative sip. Surprise blooms on her face, and she turns the cup to investigate the logo on the paper wrapping.

“I got coffee from the same place this morning and it tasted like dishwater, here, try it.”

She offers the dregs to Malfoy, who sighs and throws his file down on top of a sandwich wrapper. 

“The barista has a soft spot for me,” he yawns. ”Says I have the best manners of any customer they get in there, has a tendency to mistake my name for a phone number when writing it on the cup.”

“I was in there fifteen minutes ago Malfoy, there was only one barista serving, and he has a girlfriend.”

Malfoy simply looks at her over the rim of the cup, the crinkle around his eyes the only evidence he’s amused by her naivety. 

“It’s not my fault your feminine wiles are redundant, what gives you the right to steal _my perfectly brewed coffee?”_

“Revenge. You’ve always been so concerned about my Mudblood germs.”

Eyes hardening, he makes a show of draining her cup and throwing it towards the waste paper basket, where it skids to a halt just before it overshoots, then drops into the bin.

“You can’t help but be a bitch, can you?”

He straightens, buttoning the top of his shirt and tightening his tie. Without meeting her eyes, he mutters something about shepherding the reporters from the Atrium down to the chamber. The soft click of the office door is deliberate, and she flinches as if it had slammed.

* * *

Inviting the press into Wizengamot meetings is an idea Kingsley gleaned from the Muggle Prime Minister. For over a month she’d return home to see the Minister for Magic perched on her couch murmuring to a Quick Quotes Quill and concentrating fiercely on her television set, frown set deep into his face.

It seemed to jar him every time the opposition started booing.

Though the Wizengamot lacks party affiliation, it’s clear whose loyalties lie with Kingsley, and who intends to block his every attempt at reform. Kingsley’s intention was to have the public hold his government accountable: doors which had for so long been closed against those of insignificant birth, are now jammed open by Rita Skeeter’s dragonhide stiletto.

For the trainees it’s a chance to puff their chests, whereas Hermione has a pile of paperwork threatening to topple from her desk, the file for this case left untouched since yesterday afternoon. On Sunday she’ll heed the summons to the Burrow: the dreaded baby shower requires planning for Ginny’s arrival home. Molly likes to insist that Hermione has a better idea about ‘what young women like these days,’ but will end up eschewing her every suggestion and set Hermione to work scouring while she carefully arranges daisies in milk jugs. Hermione may have narrowly escaped becoming Molly’s daughter-in-law, but she’ll never escape the duties.

It’s stiflingly hot in the chamber, and though a cool breeze swirls around her ankles from the vents, sweat collects at her hairline and along the line of her spine. Even Malfoy’s perfectly tousled hair has begun to wilt. Every so often, from across the breadth of the room she sees Dean’s eyes slip shut, only for them to snap open moments later as Dean moves his hands behind his back. From the hollowing of his cheek and the movement of his jaw she assumes he’s not merely pinching himself to stay awake, but chewing a hole in his cheek.

His eyelids flutter once more when Rita Skeeter’s nasal voice rings out, no doubt amplified by a _Sonorus._

“Auror Malfoy, can you give any credit to the whispers I’ve been hearing all across Britain? Your mother’s house arrest is almost over, will we be seeing divorce papers signed at the Manor any time soon?”

She smiles sickeningly, and Hermione swears she sees the vile woman wink at Draco, who has colour rising high on his cheeks. His eyes are glassy, fixed on a spot above the Chief Warlock’s head.

“Of course, you could be opening up the Marseilles house as a holiday home, couldn’t you, Mr. Malfoy?”

She moves towards Malfoy who stands by the door, hand stilled in the middle of what was a rather complicated sleight of hand involving his wand. 

In the weeks following the final battle, chatting with Harry and Ron by the newly erected Fountain of Magical Brethren - minus the simpering look on the House Elf’s face, with the addition of a raised pan in hand, as a nod to their involvement in the Battle of Hogwarts - she’d first seen him do it as he passed through the guard gate. One moment it was gripped tightly in his palm and the next it had vanished. Her throat had tightened at the idea he’d somehow use his hidden wand to attack Harry, or more likely Hermione herself. 

She had no words of salvation for him, not like Harry. Only the truth: he’d had no part in her torture.

Though they’re the only ones allowed their wands in the chamber (all civilians check their belongings at the door), she’s never seen him carry his wand openly, never sticking out of his back pocket like Ron always has it, or in a holster like Harry. Every time he produces it as if from thin air she kicks herself for not watching more closely. 

Last year Ginny confided in her, more loudly than the younger and much drunker witch had intended, that Malfoy does it so as to seem a little less threatening. If he’s humble and ducks his head it tends to go down smoother than his childhood strutting and posturing. In the first week of Auror training he received a black eye from his training partner on the back of a ‘hostile look.’

Kingsley gapes, and calls out for a recess.

* * *

Malfoy disappears from the hall so quickly she could have sworn he Apparated, if she didn’t know that was impossible. Hermione is stuck as a glorified coat attendant, accepting tickets and handing out wands in the Atrium as reporters jostle.

A minor skirmish breaks out when a photographer clips his colleague in the jaw with his camera, to which Hermione is quick to apply an _Impedimenta._

They’re champing at the bit to play catch-up, though the story won’t truly break until the evening edition. Hermione is not in the habit of judging individuals by their profession, though every reporter she’s met on the job has been unutterably rude. She knows, however, what people say about the Aurors. Her own parents, upstanding citizens, have little truck with the Muggle police, and next to no faith in the Auror department who, in their eyes, failed to protect their only daughter from the machinations of a terrorist.

Her father, especially, is of the mind she’d do much more good in the world making laws, rather than enforcing them. The police force of his younger years were less than kind to him, a muscled Black youth in denim and tie-dye, hand in hand with Hermione’s pale, doe-eyed and diminutive mother.

Racing to the lifts, rather comically skidding to a stop in order not to knock over the head of Games and Sports, she’s desperate for the quiet of the office, to possibly send a strongly worded letter to Malfoy scolding him for being such a coward, only then reminding him that she’s locked the woman in a jar before and she’s not afraid to do it again.

In her usual fashion she’s muttering under her breath when she kicks open the office door, and looks up into the chagrined faces of Draco Malfoy and Blaise Zabini.

Both of whom have cigarettes in hand.

“You are not sixteen, and you are not lurking behind the bike sheds,” she splutters. “Put those out right now, you’ll set off a fire alarm!”

Zabini looks unimpressed, but Malfoy reaches out of the enchanted window to grind his cigarette out on the concrete lip outside.

The look he gives her entreats her not to kick him when he’s down.

“I didn’t know, Granger. My parents didn’t tell me they were getting divorced, not that I blame her, Merlin.” He scrubs a hand over his face, and he looks sickly.

“Well I’m very sorry about all that, really I am, but you can’t smoke in here, and he certainly can’t be here, go home if you need moral support-”

“I am Ms. Black’s solicitor-” Draco lets out a small choking sound at the sound of his mother’s maiden name “-and since she cannot be here in person I was tasked with informing Draco of the situation,” drawls Zabini.

“I’d say Rita Skeeter was quicker off the mark than you were! The house in Marseilles is his, anyway.” She jerks her hand in Malfoy’s direction. “What right did you have to go poking around there without his knowledge?”

Draco looks at her, stunned.

“How did you know the house was mine?”

Hermione blushes, mutters Harry’s name and crosses the room to her desk.

“I believe what Granger’s not mentioning is the delightful little article published last year, must have been the day before your father’s move to house arrest, detailing all the properties the Ministry couldn’t legally snatch. Your personal portfolio was mentioned several times, as was your grandfather’s rather peculiar bequest to you. Daphne was quite upset she’d never been to the chalet, though she can’t ski to save her life.” 

A small lift in Zabini’s left cheek betrays his apparent fondness for Greengrass’ lack of ability.

“Why am I only hearing about this article now?”

Malfoy’s voice is low.

“Pansy had them print an apology less than twenty-four hours after it was published,” says Zabini in a bored voice, straightening his cufflinks. “Then she whisked you off to Japan for a week as soon as you came off that stint in the Outer Hebrides. Someone at Gringotts was let go for quite astonishingly dodgy dealings, revealing private documents was barely the tip of the iceberg.”

“The house only allows Blacks inside. Even Andromeda can’t get in, we tried last year. My grandfather was a frightful man, could never protect her while he was alive, but he made damned sure there was somewhere she could go my father could never follow.”

As Zabini turns to catch her staring, Hermione quickly shifts her attention to her ever-expanding pile of paperwork, industriously scribbling a nonsense note with a sputtering quill just for an excuse to avoid his gaze.

“Granger, Draco’s told me story after story about your vaulting ambition. Though I am currently engaged in Mrs- Ms Black’s affairs, if you ever want to walk out of this pit and go for wrongful dismissal, I’d be happy to be of assistance.” He kicks, with one very expensive looking dress shoe, at an overstuffed old filing cabinet the colour of cat sick. 

“Honestly, Draco, how you stomach it, I don’t know.” Zabini’s eyes flick to Hermione, who sucks on her finger to soothe a sudden attack of the paper cuts, and then back to Malfoy who has lit another cigarette. “Wonderful to see you again, Granger. It really has been too long.”

With a final smirk, Zabini sweeps out of the office brandishing an official-looking bundle of parchment, still wet from Malfoy’s quill.

There’s little life in Malfoy’s voice when he speaks again, pausing to cough only once.

“He really is a brilliant lawyer. Interned for the woman who represented my father. Sharks, the pair of them, but truly excellent at what they do. She’s the reason he’s been home for the last year, rather than languishing in prison.”

Hermione’s breath catches in her throat. For Malfoy, she has sympathy. For his father, she has only contempt. Ron had gotten so drunk the night of Lucius Malfoy’s verdict she thought she’d have to take him to St. Mungo’s, and she counted his breaths against her own: his deep and slow, hers hitching and catching around sobs she could not suppress.

“They couldn’t prove he’d done anything, really, not after he escaped. The way she told it, he was kidnapped from Azkaban, held hostage in his own home without a wand. I offered to speak for him, but she told me she had no interest in knowing what I’d seen him do.”

His next breath is shaky.

“Most days I wish I had told them. Most days I wish he’d never been released.”

“Me too.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Would you believe me if I said life got in the way? Surprisingly, this fic is not abandoned.

The pulsating lights overhead, starkly white, plunge the crowd into darkness only to lift them once more into frantic illumination. She’s surprisingly unsteady, unsettled as she picks her way across the dance floor. Her steps resemble that of a stop-motion film character, positioned in freeze frame by an unseen hand.

In the straggling queue by the coat check Malfoy slouches in a black denim jacket. She knows how much it must have cost to look like that, distressed and artfully frayed at the hem. His sleeves, shoved up around his elbows, show off the mark that on this side of Diagon Alley is just another tattoo.

Juggling a pair of vodka cokes, she scans the entryway for women carrying large bags, men with drooping pockets, or any familiar faces, unsavoury or otherwise. Her trademark - an undetectable extension charm - isn't part of the curriculum at Hogwarts. She doesn't expect common criminals to be able to pull it off.

Truthfully, she doesn't expect this tip-off to mean much at all.

A hand on her back has her twisting around, scowl ready on her face. Her mouth is open, an indignant sound building in her throat, ready to chastise whoever the hand belongs to.

To her dismay, it's only Malfoy.

"Coat queue was a nightmare. I shrunk them instead. Here," he shouts in her ear, over the thud of the speakers. He slaps her jacket, now the size of a small coin, into her palm.

"Dawlish said no magic," she says.

 _"Dawlish said no magic,"_ he mimics in falsetto. "Dawlish also said not to make an arrest if we see anything suspicious. Technically, we're already breaking the law."

He flashes the fake driver's licence he used to bypass the bouncers, unfolding his wallet and pulling out a crisp twenty pound note. 

"I'm going to the bar, want anything?"

Hermione shoves the drink in her left hand towards him, only spilling it slightly, and the liquid drips over her wrist.

"I already bought you a drink," she says.

Malfoy pulls a face.

"That's not a drink. That's paint thinner. I'm getting something that won’t give me an ulcer."

Shouldering his way through the crowd, Malfoy gains several irate looks as he makes his way to the front of the bar, an easy smile stretching across his face as he gives his order to the bartender, his lips practically brushing her ear.

Hermione's nose wrinkles as the woman laughs, glossy red lips parting to reveal a diamond stud in her tongue.

She scans the crowd once more, noting groups of girls staggering out of the bathroom in single file, bottles of water in hand. Unfortunately, it's not her jurisdiction. An uneasy feeling settles into the pit of her stomach as she tries to ignore how young the girls are, foal-like in their high heels.

When Malfoy returns from the bar with a tray, it's all she can do not to gape.

"I think we deserve it, don't you?"

He pulls at her elbow, running his hand down her forearm to grip her wrist, pulling her up a few steps to tables on a raised platform.

Setting the tray down - there's not a single drop spilled, and she thinks the way he parts the crowd is something to do with the Malfoy sneer - he pulls out a chair for her.

"See? You watch one door, and I'll watch the other. I should think we'll be here a while, Granger, drink up."

Grabbing a shot in each hand, Malfoy downs one after the other with barely a flinch, slamming the glasses down in front of her.

He cocks his head.

"Now you try," he smirks.

"Draco, we're on duty," she hisses. "This isn't a joke, this is an _active case_ and it's _important._ I know you might not care about the safety of a few Muggles but I do, and it's about more than that-"

She holds up a hand, staring him down as he opens his mouth to retort.

"-it's about the Statute of Secrecy. How long before someone overdoses, and there's an autopsy? How long before they figure out that it's not like anything they've ever seen, and how long," she seethes, "before the police do our job for us?"

"If you honestly believe I care that little about this job- no, if you honestly believe I think like that, then why the fuck did you agree to partner with me?"

"I take this job seriously, and I don't have a trust fund to fall back on like some people. If I want to work my way up I have to-"

"Granger," interrupts Malfoy, craning his neck to scan the dance floor, not meeting her eyes.

"What?" she snaps.

"Shall we dance? Only, it's just gone midnight. I think if anyone's coming, they're already here. We might be better asking some questions of our fellow patrons."

She sighs. Despite her best effort, and despite how infuriating Malfoy might be, she always ends up looking like the unreasonable one. The irrational one. Her last appraisal from Dawlish actually included the word shrill.

Against her best judgement, she considers what the rest of the night will be like if she's pleasantly tipsy. It's actually possible she'd do better detective work if Malfoy wasn't such an annoyance. 

If the office Christmas party is anything to go by, he's infinitely more tolerable after five cups of mulled wine, specifically the novelty ones from Weasley's Wizard Wheezes that sing a different carol depending on their contents. However, that may have been due to the tinsel Ginny had stuffed into his mouth after he blearily proclaimed that the Harpies would never win another major trophy against the Tornados.

She stands, making an impatient gesture, and squeezes her way through the crowd until she feels a hand on her waist, tugging her back.

"If you go all the way over there, you'll never see anything," Malfoy says in her ear, leant over her shoulder so she can hear.

"I have excellent eyesight," she replies, turning her head to better face him.

"Maybe, but you're what, five foot four? If I say this is the better vantage point, it's the better vantage point."

Pulling at her arm gently until she's facing him, his eyes flick over her face, then lower at Parkinson's creation.

"I'm the one doing the looking, after all-"

Hermione's face contorts as her hands lift defensively to wrap around herself.

"You are such a fucking prat, Draco Malfoy, I don't know why Harry likes you, he's such a traitor-"

"Don't pretend like we're not friends, Granger, I bought you a Christmas present," says Malfoy.

"That's because you were my Secret Santa, not out of the goodness of your heart, you git!"

"Do you have to be so high and fucking mighty all the time? I know how much you love it up there on your high horse, but you can't keep pretending I'm some big bad bully and then turn around and say things like-"

"Like what?"

"Like defending me from Weasley, or sticking up for me in front of Dawlish-"

"Ron does his best, but unsurprisingly it's a bit hard to swallow the fact that a former Death Eater might be replacing him-"

"What do you mean, replacing him? He's the one that jumped ship to go and work in a joke shop, it's not my fault I can actually stick to something I put my mind to," he drawls.

"Ron is a good person, you don't help things when you're constantly talking about work in front of him-"

"I constantly talk about work because apparently that's the only thing I'm qualified to talk about! For fuck's sake, I know more about Muggle culture than your beloved Weasley ever will, but apparently the only interest I'm allowed to have is breaking up the Golden Couple-"

She rounds on him.

"What? They're married, Ginny is pregnant, you're disgusting-"

"I was talking about Potter and Weasley, not Ginny, look, forget it-"

"Then why all the secretive little coffee dates? Is that why you turn down everyone she sets you up with?"

"Do you _really _want to know why she tries so hard to pair me off? Are you sure you don't have _any_ idea?" His hand is closed firmly around her wrist, enough that she struggles to pull away, but not enough to hurt. His mouth is set in a hard line, and his eyes are cold.__

____

"Malfoy, you're-"

"No. For once in your life shut the _fuck_ up! She knows that for years I've done everything I can to try and prove that I'm not a stupid teenager following orders any more, and she knows the real reason Weasley can't stand me is that he's jealous-"

"Malfoy, seriously-"

"What?" he snaps.

She leans close, eyes wide.

"There's someone loitering by the ladies, and they're looking straight at us, no-"

Before he has the chance to turn his head her hand is in his hair, gripping hard, holding him in place.

His mouth slackens as his gaze tracks over her face, and his voice is gentle when he murmurs, "Fancy a shag in the toilets, Granger?"

She rolls her eyes, sighing.

"You are such a git."

Eyes flicking towards the man she suspects they may be looking for, and safe in the knowledge he's still looking unabashedly in their direction, Hermione rises up onto tiptoe, arms around Malfoy's neck, and kisses him.

For a moment her mouth is resolutely closed. When his hands wrap around her waist, pulling her to him, he sucks on her bottom lip, teasing her mouth open. Despite her attempts to keep an eye on the suspect her eyes flutter shut, if only for a moment, before she presses her hands to his chest and pushes.

"You look like you just went a round with the Dark Lord, Granger, calm down," he says, smirking. "I'll get you some pearls to clutch for Christmas this year, shall I?"

Malfoy scans the room, eyes lingering on the suspect who adjusts his jacket before ducking inside the door to his left. Wrapping a hand around her waist he gently pulls her in that direction, lowering his mouth to her ear.

"I want you to know, Granger, that I still respect you as a colleague. However, I’m fairly certain that we’re no longer incognito. I think Dawlish might have been onto something."

At her answering glare, he chuckles and continues.

"I'm warning you to prepare yourself for what I'm about to do, mainly because I don't want Blaise to rip you to shreds in front of the Wizengamot over a sexual harassment suit-"

"And what, exactly are you about to-"

Her eyes widen as his hand travels down, skirting over her hip and resting on the curve of her arse.

"I'm making it believable, remember?"

"I am going to hex you into next month the moment we get out of here, and when you wake up in St Mungo’s expecting grapes and sympathy, I'll let Harry at you," she hisses.

"I don't think I need to worry about Potter. His wife has been rooting for me for years," says Malfoy. "Now, are you ready?"

"Ready for what?"

At that he pushes her against the swing door, moulding her body against hers, hands frantically pushing their way through the queue and towards the nearest cubicle, to the indignant shouts of the men at the urinals, hurriedly zipping their flies.

The moment they're inside Malfoy pulls back, flushed, and runs a hand through his hair. Hermione quickly pulls her wand from the band of her bra, causing his eyes to widen.

"Muffliato."

"Wasn't that exceptionally uncomfortable?"

"Some of us don't have the luxury of pockets. If you're really that concerned on my behalf you ought to take it up with Parkinson. She designed the bloody thing."

"Yes," Malfoy says. "Rather talented, my Pansy."

"What do we do now then? He was alone, we can't just wait here all night-"

"I think that might be beyond even my capabilities, but my reputation will suffer a heavy blow if we're in here any less than twenty minutes-"

"You're disgusting, you're never usually like this," says Hermione, wrinkling her nose.

"On the contrary, I'm like this all the time. You're just not there to see it. Too busy feeding your cat, which, I'll be honest, I thought was a euphemism the first time Potter said it."

"Oh, shut up, you're such a child-"

"I think I could prove you wrong on that front," he replies, crouching to scan for shoes in the next cubicle.

"Look, Malfoy, we have friends in common, yes, but it's not like we really know each other-"

"How often do you eat dinner alone?"

A look of confusion crosses her face, and she pulls down the lid on the toilet, moving to sit down.

"Most nights, why?"

"Think about how often you eat dinner with Potter - your best friend - and then think about how often you eat dinner with me."

"That's different, Malfoy, Harry has a wife to get home to, and you're the only other person in the office who likes the food they serve at the cafe-"

"The food they serve at that cafe is inedible, Granger. More often than not I go home and cook something else afterwards-"

"So that's why you barely eat! Not hungry, my arse, you always made me feel like a monster for actually finishing my plate-"

"I eat there, what, twice a week? We're together all the fucking time, just because you can't have an intelligent conversation with any of your other friends doesn't mean they're better than me."

"It's not conversation if we're shouting, Malfoy-"

"So what? It's a fucking debate, and you're the most intense person I've met in my life, I'd be concerned if you weren't jumping down my throat-"

"Right," snaps Hermione. "I'm the harpy that can never let anything go, you're just like Ron, always telling me to take it easy."

"I am nothing like Weasley," Malfoy replies, his voice low.

"I suppose not, Ron would never hurt a fly."

"Potter _warned_ me. He told me you'd waited for Weasley for years before he noticed you, that you'd never known any different, that's why you were being so fucking obtuse-"

He's cut off by the sound of something heavy hitting the floor, accompanied by the clinking of glass, quickly cut off by absolute silence.

Hermione's eyes are wide when she hisses, "What now?"

"You go around, make sure they can't get out the door - Confund the other Muggles to get them out if you have to. We need the element of surprise."

"Shouldn't we call for backup? That's what Dawlish-"

"It's a waste of time and resources." He falls silent, craning his head to better listen to the low voices coming from the next cubicle. "There are two blokes in there, chances are one of them's a Muggle. I'll Apparate through, grab them both, and we'll take them straight to the Ministry."

Straightening, Hermione pulls her wand, nodding.

"Silencio."

Without the slightest of sounds she slides back the bolt on the door, opening it a crack to aim at the three Muggle men standing at the urinals.

"Confundo," she whispers.

The moment the last of them exits the room, she darts through the door, accompanied by the crack of Apparation and a startled cry.

Over the sound of a scuffle, she hears Malfoy say "Evening, gents."

When the three of them emerge, she immediately recognises the pungent musk of Mundungus Fletcher, unshaven and clutching a bulging leather bag.

Glancing at the other man, her face drops.

"Malfoy?" she asks, slowly.

"Granger?" he mimics.

"Neither of these men is the one we saw looking at us earlier."

Malfoy frowns.

"You don't think... oh fuck."

* * *

Though wrinkled and smelling faintly of sweat, last night's clothes are freshly Transfigured into something more appropriate for the chilly white wards of St. Mungo's.

She knows this ward intimately.

The Muggle she watches over wasn't carrying any form of valid identification, and it's taken four hours and a mountain of paperwork to get to this point.

"Auror Granger?"

Hermione is startled, drawing her gaze away from the huge windows that line one wall, from where the sun rises over the London skyline. For those who don't recognise the city, have no comprehension of the bustling cars or gleaming glass behemoths lining the river, it provides a distraction of some sort. A disturbance to the equilibrium of a caged existence.

Alice Longbottom likes it when it rains.

"I apologise for the delay, I know it's nothing like this when the Hit Wizards are called out, but we have a duty of care to all our patients, even Muggles," the Healer says, brushing her fringe out of her eyes.

"Of course, we're all just doing our jobs. Though why the Hit Wizards on call weren't available, I'll have to ask my supervisor." Hermione grimaces. "I hope that's the last of the paperwork?"

Healer Shaw smiles, passing Hermione a clipboard over the man's prone form.

"We managed to track down a next of kin, and there's a system in place for his transfer to a Muggle trauma centre. If you need to question him at all, it'll have to be before his treatment." She glances down at her notes. "We'll be giving him the appearance of having been in a rather nasty bar fight before we Obliviate him, but it's hospital procedure to keep him unconscious. Minimises the amount of time we'll have to overwrite in his memories."

Pulling her jacket across her shoulders, Hermione moves to shake the Healer's hand.

"We already have a suspect in custody. I really should get back, my partner's waiting for me, but thank you again for your help-"

"It was accidental magic, by the way." At Hermione's look of confusion, the Healer continues. "The Hit Wizards. High priority call in Sheffield. A five-year-old Muggleborn boy set an intruder on fire around two am. Whole street heard them."

* * *

She hears the slamming from all the way down the corridor.

Increasing her pace, there's a little skip in her step: evidence that though she's in a hurry, it doesn't do to appear concerned. This is the Auror department. She's supposed to be capable, and she is, she lived through a war, but it's early. So early.

Hermione's mouth twists into a grimace when she sees Malfoy striding across the length of the office, a bundle of parchment in his arms. The topmost sheet slips from his grasp, floating to the floor at her feet. From the bright red stamp across the top corner, it's important. Confidential. For Dawlish's eyes only. The look on his face tells her now is not the time to ask where he got it.

"Where do you think things go if I drop them out of this window, Granger?" he asks without looking at her.

"They're vanished. I asked Magical Maintenance if there was any way to retrieve Teddy's shoe after he threw it out in a tantrum. Harry thinks he'll be quite the Beater when he's older-"

"Into non-being, which is to say, everything."

Harry likes that story.

She clears her throat, casting off her cloak, and her voice is artificially airy when she poses her question.

"Why the willful destruction of property?"

"I just lost my job."

Malfoy huffs out a laugh at the look of fury on her face, following her eyes to their superior's door.

"He's gone. There's a meeting with the Metropolitan police commissioner at six," he says, glancing at the glinting watch on his wrist, "which, apparently, he's already late for."

"Dawlish can't do that, he's only _acting_ head of the department. I'll go to Kingsley as soon as he comes in, there's no reason-"

"I have a problem with authority, put myself and a fellow Auror at risk, breached the International Statute of Secrecy, and unlawfully detained a British wizarding citizen."

Hermione wrinkles her nose.

"Holding Mundungus Fletcher is a public service, if anything- he's not gone, is he? He's still in an interview room?" 

"My last formal assignment from the Auror Department was to issue my sincere apologies to _Mister_ Fletcher, and escort him from the premises."

Eyes alight, she rounds the desk and grabs a hold of his wrist where it rests against his thigh.

"I'll make him talk. I'll get a confession, information on his supply chain, something, and then Dawlish won't have a leg to stand on. The Minister will finally have a reason to kick him out, I've never met anyone who has it out for you as much as he does, even Ron-"

"Weasley just about refrains from decking me on a weekly basis- well, trying to at least-"

"Shut up," she snaps. "I mean, yes, he thinks you're a git, so do I, nine days out of ten-"

At his wounded look, she presses on, flushing.

"You know what I mean. But he won't hear a word about you being a Death Eater." Malfoy coughs pointedly. "Reformed Death Eater. What the fuck did Dawlish do in the war? He was never exactly a friend to Harry, and I know for a fact he's refused to partner with Muggleborns in the past."

"So say we do get a confession out of Fletcher, then what? The accusations still stand, and vindication doesn't pay my mortgage."

"You don't have a mortgage. Do wizards even get mortgages? I can't imagine going into Gringotts and asking a goblin to help me buy a two-bed in Shropshire-"

"Of course not, you stole their dragon. You probably have terrible credit, too-"

"Where is all this coming from?"

"Ginny watches a lot of daytime television now she's too big to train. She's always complaining that matches are on too late, her Quick Quotes Quill malfunctions whenever she yawns."

The image of Draco Malfoy watching Jeremy Kyle stuns her for a moment, but shaking her head, she tugs him up with her as she stands.

Pausing in the doorframe, she bites her lip.

"Are you even allowed in the interview room now you're not technically an Auror?"

"I have to have twenty-four hours notice before it becomes official. It's in the contract."

"That's not true at all, is it?"

"No," he scoffs. "You honestly think I read my own contracts? That's what I pay Blaise for."

The interview rooms are, inconveniently, on the same level as the Wizengamot chamber, supposedly for the sake of security. It's just the two of them in the lift, Hermione discreetly bracing one hand on the rail.

Though the floor is solid beneath her feet, the knowledge that there's nothing solid below that is enough to make her green. She can feel Malfoy's eyes on the back of her head, and she reaches up to pat at her hair hesitantly. After hours perched on one of St Mungo's hard chairs it's flattened on one side, and bigger than ever on the other.

"Why do you never braid it? Like, whatshername, Gryffindor captain, the ballbreaker-"

"Angelina?" she asks without turning. "I haven't had it done since I was really little. I used to sit and squirm the entire time, trying to sneak a look at the book in my lap. Then my accidental magic triggered, and it would unravel almost as soon as it was done."

She smiles, turning and tugging on a curl.

"My parents gave up after a while."

The lift skids to a stop, and when the grating slides open she uncurls her death grip on the railing. For a moment, she simply takes a breath to gather herself, before pointing her wand at the first door, which slams open under the weight of her spell.

Mundungus Fletcher, or what can be seen of him over the neck of his enormous tattered coat, jumps to attention, lifting his head from the circle of his arms and blinking rapidly before scowling.

A slow smile spreads across her face across her face as she perches on the cold metal table, less than a foot from their suspect.

"Good. You remember me, then."

Behind her, the scrape of a chair suggests Malfoy has taken the only other chair. She's seen his tactic countless times, the crux of which involves sprawling in a chair with his sleeves pointedly rolled above his elbows. The look of cold disdain, of boredom, on his face, tends to make people talk purely to escape the icy glare.

For those of stronger constitutions, he reserves the lean forward, the low and urgent tone of voice. There are no one-way mirrors in the Ministry, just walls which allow observation in the event of the correct spell.

She's never been able to make out what he says, but he's yet to walk out of one of these rooms without a wealth of information.

Dung shifts in his seat, sneering.

"Granger. The bitch who loves 'ouse elves, nasty little shits-"

Malfoy clears his throat, pinning Fletcher with a stony look.

"I remember, alright."

"You were caught red-handed attempting to sell controlled substances to a Muggle. We want to know who you got them from, what you've been selling for them, and where to find any remaining stock that your Muggle buyer hasn't already offloaded."

"Worst I'll get is a smack on the wrist, they don't send you to Azkaban for petty crimes these days. They can't even keep in the murderers, look at Lucius Malfoy-"

"If you remember me, you must remember Kreacher. See, I lived at Grimmauld Place for a time after Hogwarts. Kreacher still answers to me, and he _loathes_ it. I'm sure if I were to call him here now he'd be happy to take it out on you-

"Little bastard is just that, isn' he? Little. 'E don't scare me."

"I don't know about that. He's particularly fond of the cast iron pans I gave Harry as a wedding present-"

"We can guarantee you won't be charged if you give up your supplier."

Hermione’s head whips around, shooting a frantic look at Malfoy who simply shrugs, glancing at his left forearm as if to suggest _I’ve already been sacked, Granger, what’s he going to do to me?_

“I’m not some sort of idiot,” Mundungus begins, bristling at Malfoy’s derisive laugh. “I want it in writing before I say anything.”

“Our boss described you as a law-abiding citizen, and, to be honest, this investigation is a mess. He wants it to go away as quickly and quietly as possible. The Ministry isn’t concerned with small time potion dealers, but if all he has to give the press is you, he’ll do it to save his own arse-”

"And since my time has suddenly been freed up, I might be tempted to write a few letters to my father's old friends. They're all itching to get out of the house after spending so long in Azkaban-" 

“Romilda Vane," Fletcher rushes out. "Pretty. Bit of a bitch, though. Very… shrill. Lives in-”

“Devon. In the blue house on the corner.”

“How did _you_ know that?”

Malfoy’s inflection suggests he knows exactly who she is. Unsurprising, really.

“She and Luna dated briefly. A few of us went to a dinner party at her house, and we were terrified to touch anything in case it was spiked. Ginny brought her own bottle opener, poured Harry’s drinks herself. Ron flat out refused to go after, you know-”

“My failed attempt at poison.”

Hermione’s face softens, and she opens her mouth only to be cut off by a grumbling Mundungus Fletcher.

“Dunno why you lot were there last night anyway, I told Dawlish the wrong night-”

Draco’s eyes flash, and he sits forward in his chair.

“What do you mean, you _told_ Dawlish?”

“I mean, ‘e came up to me in Knockturn Alley one day asking about Muggles an’ Dreamless Sleep. I fed ‘im some story about Polyjuice and ‘e ate it right up. Paid me twenty Galleons an’all.”

Hermione jumps at the loud bang that comes from the other side of the table, where Malfoy’s hand is braced against its surface, head hanging between his knees.

His laughter, the purest she’s ever heard it, echoes around the room.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chinese Whispers is apparently also known as Telephone in the US.

The slap of the newspaper against the coffee table is soft. Gentle. Much like Harry's voice when he sighs, standing, and says, "You made page eight, too."

Hermione spreads her fingers, peering out from behind her hands with one eye. Leaning forward, she snatches it up, quickly flipping to the correct page.

"Local woman implicated in nefarious Potions ring." She looks incredulous. "If you count Mundungus Fletcher and a few teenage Muggles as a ring, then, yes. It doesn't even mention me by name, and there's- there's a quote from Dawlish! No mention of the fact he wasn't actually at the bust-"

"Don't act as if it was some sort of big stand-off, Hermione, she wasn't even properly dressed," interrupts Ginny.

"As if that matters! She still had her wand in her hand-"

"-and a cup of tea in the other." She snorts. "Don't get me wrong, I'm happy you got her. I'm sure you were very brave."

Ginny reaches across the length of the couch to pinch her cheek, only to be batted away by an irate Hermione. A look of mock outrage crosses the other witch's face.

"I am _pregnant._ Just because you're a famous Auror now doesn't mean you can abuse defenceless mothers-"

"You're not a mother yet," Harry interjects.

"Nor will I be, if I don't get a cup of tea and a biscuit pronto. Be a dear," she begins, smiling sweetly.

Harry heaves himself off the footrest on the other side of the table, pausing briefly to allow Ginny to pat at his hand.

"One for our guest, too." She leans back into the sofa cushions. "Isn't he lovely? Someone should really make an honest man of him-"

"-says his wife."

Placing a hand on her stomach, she smiles.

"I always hated women who walked about rubbing their bump, but I think I understand it now. I definitely get special treatment now I'm carrying the Chosen Baby."

"Let us not forget you were dubbed _England’s greatest hope_ at the last World Cup, not to mention the fact you’re a war hero-"

"-or the fact Draco threatened to curse that bitch in the Leaky who didn't want to give up her seat."

Hermione quickly folds the newspaper, rolling it once in her hands before placing it face down on the table. When the headline changes, now reading 'Does your mother know?' she pulls her wand, silently vanishing it.

"He's very conscientious," she replies coolly.

Ginny grins.

"Certainly very attentive to the needs of his best friend-"

"Parkinson is his best friend," Hermione mutters.

"-who is dying to know what happened," finishes Ginny, raising her voice.

Despite the wand sticking out of his back pocket, Harry’s hands are full with two mugs, and he takes measured steps across the threshold to the sitting room, eyes trained on the liquid’s surface.

"What happened when?"

Her grin widens.

"When our favourite Death Eater professed his undying love for Hermione and she kissed him."

Harry's brow furrows as he bends to place the cups down.

"You didn't already know?"

Hermione blusters.

"What do you mean, you didn't already know? You say that as if it's so obvious. As if everyone knew but me-"

"But you did know," Ginny says.

"That's beside the point," she hisses.

"You have approximately-” Ginny grabs for Harry’s wrist, turning it to read the hands of his watch. “-two hours to figure out what you're going to say to him because guests are arriving at one."

"He's not coming," Harry says, taking a sip of Ginny's tea, only grimacing slightly. Despite Hermione's protestations, Ginny's pregnant sweet tooth runs unchecked. "Malfoy has that stuff to sort out with his dad, he only got the call late last night. Turns out even though Narcissa is listed as his next of kin, she refused to come into the Ministry to meet his lawyer."

Hermione's face drops.

"What's wrong with his father?"

"Must be bad, if he’s missing the cake pops. He hasn’t shut up about them for the last week-"

"Ginny," Hermione admonishes, turning once more to Harry.

"They think he's inciting unrest. The latest wave of Death Eaters have just been let out with pretty strict parole, and one of the lower ranking ones is in St Mungo's with first degree burns over three-quarters of his body-"

"I heard, but the Healer I spoke to just said it was an intruder. She didn't say anything about a Death Eater."

"Dean's working it with Greengrass, and there's evidence that family was targeted on purpose. There was no way the suspect would have been able to just stumble across a Muggle-born child in the middle of the night.” Harry’s expression is bleak. “Lucius still has friends in high places."

"Draco's father isn't an idiot. His correspondence is monitored, I trained Dennis on what to look for myself-"

"What Dawlish says goes, Hermione."

"Not for much bloody longer, I hope," she grumbles in response.

"Harry Potter,” says Ginny in a voice that reminds Hermione uncomfortably of her mother. “You are still on holiday for the next thirty-six hours. I don't want to hear another word about the Auror Department, or Dawlish, or Death Eaters."

Harry raises his brows at her.

"Says the woman who invited two to her baby shower-"

"I invited one," she protests. "Theo was a conscientious objector, and he's Percy's fiance. You want me to ostracise my future brother in law? It's as if you've never even met my mother. Feeding lonely boys home cooking is in my genes."

"You can't try and pass off the Leaky's catering as your own again, Hannah is invited-"

"-and Hannah lives above the pub. Home cooking."

* * *

"Our eyes met across a conference hall, and I proceeded to ply him with free elf-made wine for the rest of the night. I was supposed to do the closing statements, but my useless business partner had to do them instead. He called the delegate from the Polish goblin legion an upstanding man. It was a disaster, I'm told. Fortunately, I was rather busy at the time."

He brushes his hand against Percy's where it hangs by his side, cradling a tumbler of orange juice, before grabbing his own bottle of dark beer.

“Now I split my time between London and Hong Kong, and Percy visits when he can. The family business is in need of an overhaul, has been since even before my mother died, and my grandparents aren’t exactly up for the challenge.”

“Forgive me, Nott-”

“-Theo-”

“-Theo, but what exactly is it you do?”

“We deal in the kind of potions ingredients that have been used in China for thousands of years, but that the British Ministry still considers an unknown quantity. Just because you can’t find them listed in Advanced Potion Making doesn’t mean they’re dangerous. Despite a number of very respected publications petitioning on our behalf, they won’t allow us to allow our headquarters to move here permanently. I have very few select clients in Europe. Zabini’s mother is a loyal customer, though I don’t remember the last time an invoice came through with her name on it. Her maiden name, I mean.”

He smirks, earning a raised eyebrow from his fiance.

“I thought Zabini was his father’s name,” Hermione muses, taking an incautious swallow of her drink, which stings all the way down.

“You must be joking, Granger.” Hermione stiffens, slightly, at the casual use of her surname, despite Theo’s insistence that he’d rather not be confused with the elder Lord Nott. They’re from different ends of the country, but money lends the same veneer to Theo’s voice as Draco’s. “He was dead before she even saw a Healer to confirm the pregnancy.”

“Enough about us, Hermione, how is work?” Percy grimaces. “Ron told me all about the unfortunate business with Mundungus Fletcher. What Dumbledore saw in him, I will never know.”

Theo begins to pick at the label on his beer bottle, glancing around the room.

“Actually, I’m-”

His attention, no longer held by the room’s other occupants, snaps back to Hermione.

"So how did you meet your boyfriend?"

Hermione pulls back, colour rising in her cheeks.

"Wh- Pardon? I don't have a boyfriend. At the moment," she replies.

"A girlfriend, then? I'm surprised you kept that out of the papers, given their keen interest in Ronald's love life. How is Lavender, by the way?"

Theo smiles thinly, holding her gaze. With the uptick of his brow, she sighs.

"She's excellent. Almost halfway finished her midwifery course, and Ron says she's practically guaranteed a job at St Mungo's. But no, no girlfriend."

His eyes widen, fingertips brushing his chest in mock surprise.

"No? So then what excuse could you possibly come up with for leaving Draco in such a mess after the other night?"

Hermione glares over the top of her drink at Percy, who pointedly removes his glasses and begins to wipe them down with a freshly conjured orange handkerchief.

“I think you’ll find Harry took him out for a consolatory curry. I’m not his only friend-”

Theo scoffs, frowning at Percy when he places his hand on Theo’s forearm.

“He’s not going to lose his job, if that’s what you’re worried about. Kingsley’s in the process of removing Dawlish as we speak, although there’s a nasty human resources issue we have to unsnarl-”

“I’m less worried about him losing his career than losing his _mind._ Admittedly, yes, he made a fool of himself. Not particularly Slytherin of him, although he’s always been a drama queen. _However,”_ he continues, skewering her with an icy look, “If you really were his friend, you would speak to him. Draco is a dreadful bore when he’s pining.” 

Percy looks up when she makes a strangled sort of a cough in the back of her throat, shrugging minutely.

“He didn’t actually _say_ anything,” she protests.

“But he didn’t have to, did he? You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

She squares her shoulders.

"If Draco is unaware that men and women can simply be friends, I suggest someone notify Ginny he thinks she's a bloke, firstly. Secondly, I couldn't possibly date someone with their head so far up their own arse they can't see that I’m not twelve years old, I deserve better than this _stupid_ game of Chinese whispers-"

"I should think not, Granger, that sounds rather uncomfortable," drawls Malfoy from behind her.

When her eyes seek Harry's across the room he simply grimaces, mouthing 'sorry,' before stepping forward to usher Draco into the hallway to hang up his coat.

“I’m going to assume Chinese whispers is something Muggle, Granger, lest I get offended,” says Theo with a grin.

With a glance at Percy, who nods swiftly, she downs her drink.

* * *

Over an hour later she's slicing more limes for virgin mojitos at Ginny's insistence, something she claims Hermione is most adept at. Supposedly it's to do with her prowess in Potions, and her attention to detail. The look in her eye tells Hermione Ginny is daring her to point out that Malfoy, too, fits that description, and that he is conveniently unburdened by one-half of the Scamander twins.

None of them had expected Luna to be married with children so young. When confronted, she vehemently disagreed. It is much easier to trek across the rainforest with a baby strapped to one's back, rather than two in one's womb. The twins had come to her in a dream two years prior, demanding to be conceived, and who was she to deny them?

Her knife stills on the chopping block at the hesitant knock on the door frame.

"You'll just have to wait a minute longer, Harry, there's no point cutting them by magic because-"

"-by the time you've fetched a replacement and started again, you would have been finished chopping them by hand," Malfoy finishes, in a passable impression of their Potions Master.

Hermione flushes.

"Really, I'll only be a moment. I'll bring them out."

"I'm off. Have to get back to the Manor to let Blaise in. He wants to go through my father's letters himself to see if the department could have planted something."

"We would never do something like that. I would trust Dennis, especially, with my life."

She had, on more than one occasion.

"But not Dawlish."

Her brow furrows.

"He hasn't been on active Death Eater duty for months."

"Like I said, it's what Blaise wants. Not me."

In the silence, she's unsure if the look on his face is resignation or simply exhaustion.

"I'll see you on Monday, then," says Malfoy.

"You won't, actually-"

"Fuck. You're kidding, I've really been sacked? Potter said-"

"No, no, that's- that's all taken care of. I handed in my notice yesterday."

His mouth drops open for a moment before he remembers himself.

"You have to give two weeks before you can leave," he says. His voice is low, mouth pursed.

"Special circumstances. I’m filling a hole in Beings that’s been left empty far too long already, and-"

"But you're leaving... because of me. Because of the way I've been acting."

She resumes her chopping, more as an excuse to look away than out of necessity.

"The Auror department was a way to pay my dues. A way to make sure people didn't forget what I was capable of during the war."

"You're Hermione Granger, nobody's forgotten that-"

"But what they remember first is that I'm a Muggle-born. I don't have a powerful name to throw around. The Wizengamot can't ignore me if my face is all over the paper."

"That's not something I'd boast about. Why do you even care what they think about you? Even as department head you'd- oh."

"Kingsley says that I need to wait at least a decade. That I need to make a lot of headway with Beings," she pauses, and takes a breath. "But that once I do, he'll endorse me."

"And fraternising with the son of a prolific Death Eater isn't exactly good for your image," Malfoy says, around a twisted mouth. "I hear you, but-"

"Actually," she begins, taking a step towards him. "Ginny reckons it might make me more likeable."

It seems to take more effort than usual for him to breathe deeply, as he eyes her warily.

"Less of a goody two-shoes. More inclined to break the rules, should the situation call for it."

Malfoy’s face is carefully blank, though his fist clenches and uncurls at his side. He tucks his chin, eyes trained on the kitchen counter.

"Like the rule about no relationships between colleagues?” he asks.

"For starters. Although come next week I'll technically outrank you-"

She's cut off by a near-inaudible gasp as his hands find her waist.

His brows pull together for a split second before he looks her in the eye with a smirk.

"I think you should kiss me, Granger. Things tend to work out for the better when you take charge, wouldn't you agree?"

Her face lights up.

"Is this you admitting that Cardiff was your fault?"

"This is me telling you to stop stalling, and show some of that famous Gryffindor courage. Also, to stop bringing up Cardiff, because that was two years ago."

Draco smiles slowly, punctuating his words with a squeeze of his hands, but makes no move towards her.

"Would you... would you close your eyes?"

"What _age_ are you? You definitely cannot count on my vote if you can't do something as simple as-"

The moment their lips touch something unfurls in the knot of her shoulders, hands moving almost independently of her brain which, admittedly, appears to have taken a holiday.

She slips her hands under his t-shirt, running her fingers across the planes of his chest, and leans closer at the noise he makes in the back of his throat. Only vaguely aware of the path Malfoy's hands are taking, she moves to pull back as he slides his palms from her back to her arse.

"Double standards," he murmurs against her mouth.

Before she can respond, he walks her towards table: the same one she's eaten dinner at dozens of times, surrounded by people she considers family. All thoughts of Mrs Weasley and her brood are forced from her mind, though, when he grips the top of her thighs to lift her onto its scrubbed wooden surface.

She deepens the kiss, trying to suppress the laughter that threatens to escape from her mouth when she thinks: _Draco Malfoy's tongue is in my mouth._

Despite Ron's protestations, she'd sat him down two weeks after their breakup with a pen and paper and demanded he provide her constructive criticism. The fact they've known each other for over a decade should have prepared him for his exit interview, really. It was important to know exactly how to improve her fellatio technique.

His main gripe, however, was her tendency to keep her eyes open as he kissed her. It was creepy, he said. From then she resolved to at least try to be more... present. She's dimly aware of some fumbling going on at the back of her shirt, when Malfoy pulls back and slams his hands down on either side of her hips, looking crestfallen.

"Why do women insist on wearing these _contraptions?"_ he asks, head hung low.

Hermione laughs, tugging his head up to meet her eye, and running her hands through his hair.

"What would you prefer, a corset?"

"Merlin, you're not into that sort of thing, are you? I swear if one more witch tries to get me to play along being Mr Darcy, I'm going celibate."

She reaches around to the clasp of her bra, a smirk on her face.

"Who on earth wanted you to do that?"

Draco's eyes widen as she pulls her bra from under her shirt - strapless, she's a witch, not a magician - and he blurts, "Padma Patil."

"You shagged Padma Patil? But she's-"

"Intelligent, beautiful, and a bit of a bitch. Sound familiar?"

“I was going to say gay,” she replies in a stage whisper.

“Well, neither of us knew that at the time, did we?”

When she goes to speak, he leans forward, pressing a chaste peck to her lips.

“Stop fucking talking while I’m trying to fuck you.”

“We are in a _kitchen-”_

“Well observed,” he whispers in her ear, before latching his mouth to her neck.

Hermione pulls her wand from her sleeve, casting a convenient little silent charm. He doesn’t appear to notice her plan until she’s palming him through his boxers. He stills, pressing his forehead against hers and moving to cup her breast in one hand.

“That’s bold,” he gasps.

“I’d say… daring. Nerve and chivalry. Et cetera.”

His hands move swiftly to her buttons, though as soon as her breasts are free he ducks his head to latch onto a nipple with his mouth. She’s slipping a hand inside his boxers, wrapping a hand around him when she hears movement in the hall, beyond the door which is open just a crack.

Fumbling for her wand, forgotten when it rolled half a foot out of reach, Hermione pushes Draco’s head away with her other hand, scrambling to cover herself as the door opens.

“-don’t think we have any snozberry juice, no, I don’t actually think that’s real, Ted-”

“But Charlie has them!”

“Yes, but remember, not everything you- oh, fuck.”

She glances over at Draco who’s managed to zip his trousers and is smoothing his hair, sucking in his cheeks as if stifling a laugh.

Harry’s hands, raised in the universal gesture for ‘come on, guys,’ quickly drop to cover Teddy’s eyes. To Hermione’s mortification, Ginny appears in the door carrying a tray, which slips from her grasp when she sees her state of general disarray.

“I knew it!” she shouts, pointing her finger at Hermione, eyes gleaming, and promptly bursts out laughing.

“Ginny,” Harry begins, and his wife abruptly cuts off, looking towards him with a grin. “What have we agreed about dropping things for dramatic effect?”

“To be fair, Harry, I never agreed to anything.”

From the grin on Ginny's face, she can only imagine Malfoy's expression.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Expect the tiniest little epilogue. Very tiny. It just made more sense to end the chapter there.


End file.
